The brotherhood, p.24
The Brotherhood, page 24
‘He reported to us that you were interested.’
‘Why?’
‘He used to be a Party member. Not anymore, but he’s still got some idealism left. He doesn’t care much for the Stalinists, or the Fraternitas Virtutis.’
‘But what made him suspect that someone on The Paper had anything to do with it?’
But the question was never answered. Novak had looked back through the rear window. The prick of light was still there, far down the road. He slid back the panel in the glass partition and was shouting something at the driver, whose head jerked up under his leather cap as he glanced in his mirror. At the same time the car gave a gentle lurch and began to accelerate rapidly.
The light behind drew back into a pinprick, but did not disappear. The road still ran on straight as a runway, the pines now thinning into flat fields.
‘We’re being followed,’ Maya said. ‘There’s a motorcycle behind.’
‘Sit well back in your seat,’ said Novak, ‘and do exactly as I tell you.’
Magnus sat back and felt the road thundering under them, the slipstream from the window rising to a howl. Novak closed it suddenly.
‘Are you sure?’ Magnus asked.
‘If he keeps on at this speed we will,’ said Maya. ‘You don’t get ton-up boys going for joyrides at night in this country.’
‘There’s a village in five kilometres,’ Novak said. ‘If he’s still with us after the village —’ His words were lost in the roar of the wheels.
Magnus looked round and the light was still there, tiny but clearly visible. Beside him Maya sat rigid, her mouth set hard, her eyes watching the road racing towards them.
They reached the village a couple of minutes later. A glimpse of low houses crouching against the fields; a muddy square and the wall of a church swinging round in the headlamps, as the car turned out again into the countryside.
‘Brace yourself,’ Novak said; and the next moment Magnus felt an arm flung across his chest and he was almost catapulted through the glass partition, as the huge car shrieked and bounced, swerved round and slid to a sudden halt. The engine stopped, the lights went out.
No one moved. Magnus could see nothing but the dial of his watch; even Novak had put out his eternal cigarette. The only sound was their breathing. Then Maya muttered something and Magnus cried. ‘For God’s sake speak English!’ Those strange Slav syllables had an eerie quality now that he could no longer see her.
‘We’ll wait for him to pass,’ Novak said, ‘then see if he pulls back.’
He rolled his window down a couple of inches. Ten seconds passed. Then, very faintly, the purr of an engine. It grew quickly into a roar through the stillness, a beam of light swinging on to some trees opposite, flattening across the road — which Magnus now saw was at right angles — then flashed past with a high-pitched howl and was gone. The darkness closed back at once, the sound droning into the night.
Quietly Novak opened his door and got out. Magnus could hear him talking to the driver, but could still see nothing. Maya did not move. He said, for no definite reason: ‘Novak’s got a gun.’
‘He wouldn’t use it here,’ she whispered. ‘They’d hear it in the village.’
The driver had got out now, closing his door carefully; then a flashlight came on and moved round to the back of the car. Magnus heard the boot being opened, something being taken out and carried round to the side of the road. The flashlight moved quickly now, crossing the road, flickering across the bark of some trees.
He tried to take Maya’s hand and clutched at her knee by mistake. He could hear his heart thumping in the silence, which seemed to trap them together with an uneasy intimacy. He found her hand at last, squeezed it slowly, and she squeezed back, and for what seemed a long time they sat like this, holding hands and waiting.
The flashlight returned across the road, then went out. A minute passed. Two minutes. Maya’s hand was cold, their breathing growing louder. Then they heard the motorcycle again.
The pencil beam came flickering back down the road. The squat shape of rider and machine flashed into view, jerking, jumping, then seemed to slide sideways in a great white glare of tree trunks, as something flew off the top of the driver’s head and the front wheel rose, almost gently, and began to ride up one of the trees, the beam rising vertically now, cutting through the branches far above. The engine gave another howl and the black-clad rider was climbing the tree alone: hesitating, swinging over like a monkey to reach the next trunk, then flopped down and rolled into the road.
The machine went on whining and kicking among the branches for a couple more seconds, then crashed back into darkness. The Zim’s headlamps had come on full, and Novak and the driver were already out again, running across the road. Magnus started after Maya, stumbling into a wire somewhere in the dark, and heard Maya suddenly laugh — a quick cruel sound, followed by excited talking in Polish. He joined the three of them and looked down.
The man lay on his back as though caught in the act of stretching — legs splayed out, one elbow crooked at his side. But the face was odd, incomplete — it finished at the bridge of the nose. The top of his head had been sliced off like a boiled egg. The mouth was small and prim, lips closed. It would have happened before he’d had time to scream. There was blood and pulp on the road, and the helmet lay a few feet away, with the goggles trailing beside it, covering something that looked like a golf ball.
Novak was brutally unzipping the leather jacket, pulling out the man’s papers. He flicked through them, nodded and looked up at Magnus: ‘You recognise him?’
‘Hardly — just the mouth…’
‘He’s the one who killed Bogdan, isn’t he?’ Maya said. She was pale, but showed no obvious emotion.
Magnus nodded and turned away. The silvery-blond hair would be under the helmet. He’d been crossed three times now, but this time he would never get even.
Novak stared at the body for a moment, then knelt down, replaced the papers inside the jacket and zipped the torso back up as though it were a parcel. ‘He had Polish papers,’ he murmured. ‘That means they’re worried, or they’d have used one of the local boys.’ He glanced at Magnus: ‘Officially you’ve seen nothing. He was going too fast, left the road and hit a tree.’
The driver was already untying the thin wire that had been drawn across the road between two trees, at roughly four feet above the ground. No one spoke as they climbed back into the car. Magnus sat in the corner this time, away from Maya, with the window rolled right down.
The Zim pulled into the road and drove fast through the cold clean night.
CHAPTER 3
It was a big room built of pine logs that oozed sap like golden syrup. A wooden balcony ran round the four walls and a stove of glazed tiles roared gently in the corner. The air was sweet and heavy with pine and Balkan tobacco.
Magnus sat in a rocking chair, drowsy after a long bath and meal of borsch and stewed mutton prepared by Maya. On a stool beside him was a mug of tea-and-lemon and a tumbler of Zubrowski herbal vodka. It might all have been the setting for some Slavonic commercial: Maya, in dressing gown and slippers, curled up on a sofa by the stove hugging another mug of tea, while her father sat opposite them both in a carved wooden chair, sipping cherry brandy. Only the murmur of Novak’s urgent telephoning from the next room confused the image of domestic bliss.
Ex-Colonel Stanislav Czernovski put down his glass and patted his lips. ‘You would do well to have a good sleep, Mr Owen. It has been a day of drama for you? And that accident with the motorcyclist —’ He gave a faint gesture of his hand, which was long and slender, and oddly at variance with the rest of his appearance.
He was an enormous man, pink-cheeked with thinning hair and a reddish grey beard which he tugged and stroked as he talked. His mouth was Maya’s, though slightly loose and pouchy at the corners, and his eyes were blue and unexpectedly mild; they did not belong to a ruthless or embittered man. In other circumstances, Magnus might have put him down as an eccentric inventor or failed progressive poet. He did not look in the least like a hardened soldier, except for the brown leather jacket that bulged over his great shoulders, showing no trace of padding.
‘Novak said he was an English policeman — the one who killed Krok?’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Holy God, they must be getting desperate!’
Magnus did not want to think about Skliros.
‘An old Polish trick,’ the Colonel went on, ‘one we learnt against the Germans — flick!’ He brought his finger down across his eyes, just at the point where Skliros’ face had ceased.
Magnus glanced at Maya, but she seemed to be asleep. Her father added: ‘You have no further problems, Mr Owen? Nothing that specially bothers you?’ His English had a deep lilting accent that reminded Magnus of Welsh.
He gave a tired smile. ‘Everything bothers me, Colonel. But I’m signed on with you now — I’m committed. If you lose out, I lose out too. Isn’t there an old Russian proverb: that when a man has been swallowed by the Devil, there’s only one way out?’
The Colonel seemed overjoyed by the remark; he leant forward and shook with laughter till his eyes were wet: ‘Oh, it’s a long time since I heard that one!’ He dabbed at his eyes and was suddenly serious again. ‘You were committed, of course, from the moment you had your first contact with the Brotherhood — with John Austen Cane. You can hardly complain now.’
‘It should be an honour to be committed,’ Maya called sleepily from the sofa. ‘Especially when we’re just about to destroy them for good!’
Magnus nodded from his rocking chair. ‘Oh I’m honoured all right,’ he lied: ‘I’m not complaining. I’m a journalist — I’ll do anything for a good story.’
‘And what a story, Mr Owen! You’ll be the hero of the Polish people, sir!’
‘If we win,’ Magnus replied. ‘Remember that policeman we killed this evening.’
‘Ah, but that just proves what I have been saying!’ His eyes were bright, his hands swaying delicately as though conducting a piece of music. ‘Lubian is scared, he is in a panic. Why else would he do such an idiot thing as to risk importing an Englishman here? I’ll tell you why! It is because he does not dare commit his forces in Poland — that is, the forces of General Roman Morowski.’ He took a gulp of cherry brandy, dribbling some in his beard as he went on:
‘Because Lubian’s supporters here are beginning to smell a rat! What do they see? Bogdan Krok is murdered in a London hotel! The story is on the front page of every Polish newspaper, even Tribunya Ludn. And Morowski is no fool, believe me. He will work with Lubian as long as there is no scandal. These old Stalinists are realists — not mad moralists like Lubian and his friends. They make deals like businessmen, but when there is the first smell of scandal they will drop Lubian and his Fraternitas — so! — finished!’ He rubbed his hands as though disposing of something highly disagreeable; then poured himself another cherry brandy.
‘But you say Lubian’s already in Warsaw,’ said Magnus. ‘So they haven’t dropped him yet?’
‘Lubian is in Warsaw for one reason, Mr Owen. He has come to explain himself to General Morowski. He has talked himself out of worse corners than this, and he will try to do it again. Only this time’ — he winked slyly over his glass — ‘this time we’re going to have a little surprise for Mr Alexander Lubian.’
The door opened and Novak came in. He crossed to the stove, pausing to light a cigarette. ‘I’ve just been informed,’ he said in English, ‘that this afternoon our Consular Division in Copenhagen issued a twenty-eight-day visa to John Austen Cane. He is booked on a direct flight to Warsaw tomorrow morning, due at Okieci Airport at 1.40 a.m.’
The Colonel brought his hands together with a loud smack. ‘The beautiful idiots! They play right into our hands — are they crazy?’
‘Crazy?’ Novak gave his taut little smile. ‘Our agent Wytchek also reports that Lubian has set up his headquarters on the thirty-second floor of the Palace of Culture.’
The Colonel’s mouth dropped open: ‘Palac Kultury?’ He leapt to his feet. ‘Palac Kultury!’ he bawled.
Novak shrugged: ‘It’s a pretty strategic place. The whole tower’s sealed off, but the lower part’s open to the public, with at least eight separate entrances. It won’t be easy to cover.’
Colonel Stanislav Czernovski was wiping his eyes with laughter. ‘But Holy God, what a choice! A poetic choice! The Palace of Culture — the sterile culture that Lubian has dreamed of all his life!’
‘The sightseeing platform has been closed off for repairs since the end of last week,’ Novak said, tapping his cigarette against the stove. ‘Wytchek also reports that the arrangements were made through the Palace Works’ Committee, and Lubian set up shop there three days ago. So we haven’t got a lot of time. My own theory is that he and Morowski will get in touch tonight, and that a further meeting, probably with Cane, will take place in the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Morowski will have to be there.’ Czernovski had stopped laughing, suddenly quite serious again: ‘Or they may plan to slip out and hold the meeting somewhere quite different. They are clever devils.’
‘We’re keeping a close check on Morowski’s movements through a young aide. And Cane, of course, will be under surveillance from the moment he arrives at Okieci. The real problem will be the Palace itself. Exhibition halls, swimming baths, sports centre, People’s Theatre, Congressova nightclub — they’ll all have to be watched. But it’s my guess Lubian will stay put. He’ll think it’s a safe perch for him.’
He turned and explained to Magnus: ‘It’s the tallest building in Europe. A gift from our Soviet comrades after the war. From the top you get the finest view of the whole of Warsaw — the only place in the city where you can’t see the damn thing!’
Czernovski chuckled gaily: ‘Thirty-two floors and our friend Lubian must choose the top! It has a kind of mad splendour about it,’ he added, giving himself another cherry brandy.
‘It’s known as “Stalin’s Prick”.’ Maya said sleepily. ‘Somebody ought to blow it up. They will one day.’ She yawned and unfolded her legs from the sofa. ‘If we’ve got to be up at three-thirty, I think I’ll go to bed.’ She stood up and embraced her father warmly, on tiptoe. Although she was a tall girl, beside him she looked almost frail.
Magnus kissed her hand, Polish-style, and watched her greedily as she walked to the stairs, her slippers smacking softly on the pine floor. Novak excused himself a moment later; and Czernovski and Magnus were alone.
Magnus was exhausted, longing for sleep, but desperate for some last word of reassurance. The Colonel looked at him: ‘Another drink, Mr Owen?’ He came across with the Zubrowski bottle, chuckling happily: ‘I like a man who drinks! I can certainly see you’re not one of those mad idiots in the Fraternitas.’
They drank each other’s health, drank the health of Poland, and to the death of the Brotherhood. There was a pause. Magnus heard a door close upstairs. ‘Novak seems to have done a remarkable job?’ he said at last.
‘Ah, Novak is splendid!’
‘What about the other side?’
‘Oh, they are good too. But they lack the finesse of Novak. He is a real artist. And besides, in this operation we not only have Novak — we have you, Mr Owen!’
He drained his glass and stood up, smiling beatifically. ‘But now you are tired and must sleep. We leave early for Warsaw.’
Magnus saw it was almost midnight. He climbed out of his rocking chair and the Colonel laid a hand on his shoulder, walking him to the door. ‘My daughter, Mr Owen, she is a beautiful girl, don’t you think?’
‘She is very beautiful,’ Magnus said, and Czernovski laughed: ‘A miracle when you look at my ugly face.’
They began to plod up the stairs. ‘She had a hard beginning. Born just before the Uprising, and then her mother was killed — you know that?’ He sighed: ‘It means nothing to tell you English, but in those two months in Warsaw we lost a quarter of a million people. Two summer months when you could not see the sun through the smoke — while our Russian comrades waited across the Vistula, because Stalin told them they were not to get their boots wet!’ His fingers dug painfully into Magnus’ shoulder. ‘Not easy for a baby to grow up. And I was not much good to her — a stupid old soldier. But the people who looked after her in England, they were good people, I think.’ He paused at the top of the stairs to turn out the lights. ‘I am rather drunk now, Mr Owen. But I think it is perhaps better she makes her life in a good country like England? Don’t you think?’ He clamped both hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I like you, Mr Owen — I think you would be very good for my daughter. She is a fine girl.’
Magnus felt vaguely abashed. ‘Colonel, I know nothing about your daughter. It’s been hide-and-seek all the way. And we’re not finished yet. But just tell me one last thing. Supposing I hadn’t cooperated — or that Novak hadn’t trusted me?’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘Then I expect we would have had to kill you. Sleep well, Mr Owen. Tomorrow will be a long day.’
CHAPTER 4
The sky was blue above the pastel shades of the Stare Miasto, the Old Town of Warsaw. Steep baroque houses, each painstakingly reconstructed after 1945 from the drawings of Canaletto. The Kawiarnia at the corner of the square had a discreet but dignified shabbiness: balding carpets, rows of pastry cakes and a grand piano on a dais under a moulded ceiling. The waitress was slender and middle-aged, dressed like an English parlourmaid; the coffee she brought was pale brown and tasted of acorns, the boiled egg came beaten up in a hot tumbler.
Magnus sat alone at a corner table. It was more than an hour now since he had been dropped in a side street like lost luggage and told to wait. Novak had been worried that the Zim might attract too much attention.
